Charlie’s expression didn’t change, but I saw her hand tighten on her pen. “That’s a significant resource commitment.”
“SEAS is a significant project.” I kept my voice even, businesslike. But the truth was simpler and more complicated than that. Tommy had died because someone had cut corners on testing, on equipment, on the things that keep people alive underwater. I wasn’t going to let that happen to SEAS. Not to Charlie’s work. Not on my watch.
“We’d need to discuss logistics,” Charlie said carefully. “Timelines. My team has commitments here. This isn’t a decision I can make alone.”
“Take the time you need. Talk to your team. But the facility is available whenever you’re ready.”
She studied me, looking for the catch. I let her look.
“Thank you,” she said finally. Not warm, but not cold either. Somewhere in between. Cautious.
I’d take cautious.
The meeting wrapped up. Charlie’s team filed out, several of them shaking Mike’s hand, a few stopping to thank me—sincerely, which I appreciated more than the obligatory corporate pleasantries I was used to. These people actually cared about their work. Charlie had built that culture, not Richard.
After the room cleared, I sat with the surveillance footage Mike had flagged and Charlie’s personnel file, side by side on my laptop. She frequently drove home alone, late at night. Someone was watching her. Her car barely ran. And she had no idea.
The Corolla was a problem I could solve without her permission. I told myself it was a safety issue. A liability concern. That any responsible CEO would do the same for a key employee whose vehicle was unreliable and whose car was being surveilled in the HydroCore lot by an unknown party.
All of which was true. None of which was the real reason.
The real reason was that I couldn’t stand the idea of her turning that key at eleven a.m. and the engine not catching. Of her sitting alone in a dark garage, in a car that wouldn’t start, while someone out there was watching.
I called the fleet manager. Dark gray Volvo XC60. Safe, reliable, nothing flashy. Navigation system, roadside assistance package. The kind of car that would start every time and get her home in one piece. In her parking spot by noon.
Two hours later, I heard her coming down the hall. The pace was unmistakable—quick, deliberate, the walk of a woman who had something to say.
She appeared in my doorway, keys dangling from one hand.
“What is this?”
“It’s a company car.” I didn’t look up from my laptop. “You’re a company asset.”
“I didn’t ask for a car.”
“You didn’t ask for a lab that’s sixty-two degrees year-round, either, but I noticed you haven’t filed a complaint about it.”
She stared at me. I kept my face neutral, my attention on the screen. If I looked at her, I’d see the conflict—the part of her that wanted to throw the keys at my head warring with the part that knew her Corolla was a death trap. I didn’t need to see it. I already knew which part would win.
“This doesn’t change anything,” she said.
“It’s a car, Charlie. Not a peace treaty.”
A pause. Then the keys disappeared into her pocket, and she turned and walked out without another word.
She didn’t look back.
I watched her go down the hallway until she turned the corner, then I sat back in my chair and stared at the ceiling.
She’d taken the keys. She hadn’t said thank you. She hadn’t needed to.
Mike appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and that expression he got when he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear.
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
“For what it’s worth,” he continued, “she’s the real deal. The plan she delivered this morning is the best work I’ve seen in fifteen years of doing this. If she’d had a fraction of the resources Richard was sitting on, SEAS would already be saving lives.”
